


The Round Table

by readyforperfect



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror, Gen, Happy Ending, because Kevin seriously deserves one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:50:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readyforperfect/pseuds/readyforperfect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Holy Terror, Kevin wakes up in the Prophet's Lounge of Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Round Table

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fic ever, so please be gentle.

                “There he is,” a voice says, a bit rough. Kevin blinks and looks around. He’s sitting at a round white table, around which are a few empty chairs. There’s another man in the room, seated directly across from him. He’s wearing a white button up, with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He has a friendly, open look about his face, clear eyes and a scruffy beard.

                “W-where am I?” Kevin asks the first thing that comes to mind.

                “Um, well there’s no easy answer for this,” the friendly looking man looks away and starts to dance around the topic. “But um, heaven?” he offers lamely, shrugging his shoulders and grinning with half his face.

                “Heaven?” Kevin sputters, because that would mean…

                “Well, it’s actually the prophets’ lounge, but it’s part of heaven. There’s more to it than this, I promise. It’s more like a VIP area of heaven.”

                “Stop!” Kevin jumps up from his seat, because suddenly it’s all coming back to him and it’s all too much and if he hears the word ‘heaven’ one more time, he might burst.

                “Right, yeah, okay that’s probably a good idea. Too much too soon! Sorry, I wasn’t really prepared for debriefing this early. You weren’t supposed to, well, you know,” the man trails off.

                “Who even are you?” Kevin asks, collapsing back into his chair and burying his face in his hands, aimlessly grappling for his eyes as he remembers the horrible burning, the smell of melting flesh, the choked sobs that he thinks were Dean’s. He’s not surprised when he feels a tear slip down his cheek.

                “Well,” the man begins, placing an arm on his shoulder in an awkward, unpracticed way. The weight isn’t exactly comforting to Kevin, but he leans into it anyway. “I am the prophet Chuck,” he says with a chuckle. Chuck rubs Kevin’s shoulder protectively, then pulls back and sits down next to him.

                Kevin pulls his face from his hands and looks at the man sitting next to him with a weak smile on his face. “So what’s your story?” He blinks and wipes away the few offending tears.

                “Oh uh, probably about the same as yours. I had these uh, visions, of the Winchesters and their entire lives. Published some of them as books. The angels tell me that they’ll be called ‘The Winchester Gospels’ one day so that’s…you know, pretty cool.”

                “And how did you,” Kevin gestures weakly with his hands, still unable to say the word.

                “Oh, well,” Chuck reaches to scratch his neck awkwardly. He rushes through his next sentence, the words bleeding together so that Kevin can’t understand. When he asks him to repeat himself, Chuck smiles the same weak smile he’s been flashing, clears his throat, and tries again. “When a prophet of the lord has completed their sacred duty, they ascend peacefully to reap their heavenly rewards.” He looks down at the table to avoid Kevin’s eyes.

                “Ascending peacefully to heaven, huh?” Kevin starts, his voice hardly a whisper. “That must be nice.” And suddenly he feels the full force of his anger. He remembers. Sam—or whoever was _wearing_ Sam—pressing his hand to his forehead, Dean pinned to the wall by some unseen force, and then the light. The brightest light he could imagine. The light and the ringing in his ears and the distant screaming and it’s all too much, just too much for him to keep inside. He jumps up and bears down over Chuck.

                “So you get to finish your holy work and ascend peacefully to heaven and I get, what? 17 years of happiness, three years of certified hell on earth, torture and bloodshed—I nearly died before I was even 20!—and now I’m dead? Is that what you’re saying? This is the VIP prophets’ lounge of heaven which means that I’m dead! I’m dead!” He finishes with a guttural wail, and he’s not sure if the tears that are flowing freely now are from anger or sadness. He collapses in on himself, balling himself into the fetal position in his chair. Chuck pats his back a bit awkwardly and draws him into a hug.

                “I wish I could tell you that I knew what it was all for,” he starts, rubbing calming circles into the young prophet’s back. “I wish I could tell you that G-d is grateful for your service, that you’ll be treated like a king, that it was all worth it.” Kevin sniffs, leaving a trail of snot on Chuck’s sleeve.

                “Then why?” Kevin chokes out, surprised at his own coherency.

                “I’m not sure. The only thing I’m sure of is that if it weren’t for the Winchesters, the apocalypse would have destroyed the earth quite a few years ago.” Kevin looks up, confused at the seeming non sequitur. “Just in case you were thinking of holding any grudges,” Chuck supplies and Kevin nods thoughtfully, remembering one of the last things he ever said. Ever _would_ say.

_I always trust you. And I always end up screwed._

                “I know that, somewhere deep down, I guess, it’s just…”

                “Hard?” Chuck supplies, and Kevin nods.

                “What’ll become of them anyway?”

                “Sam and Dean? Those two are some resilient sons of bitches, but you already know that. They’ll make it through.”

                “But how?” And now Kevin is worried, he pulls away from the hug that Chuck has been keeping him in, jumps to his feet and starts to pace. “They can’t read the tablet without me. They can’t decipher Metraton’s spell, they can’t read it.”

                “If it helps,” Chuck offers, “you were probably onto something pretty important, if someone decided you had to be killed. Give it time, those two always seem to come out on top.”

                Kevin nods slightly, but keeps pacing. He’s still adjusting to all the news. Instinctively he knows that he’s just distracting himself, trying not to acknowledge that he’s dead. “I guess so,” he breathes, collapsing back into his chair.

                He decides the best course of action is to shut his eyes and mourn himself, even though he doesn’t feel dead. He wonders if he ever will, if it ever really sinks in, if it ever becomes his reality. It’s weird, he thinks, to mourn yourself, or at least what you might’ve been. And he’s admittedly well-practiced at mourning the life he might’ve led. As he sits there in the prophets’ lounge of heaven, a scraggly bearded brother-in-arms sitting silently next to him, he wonders who he’s really mourning. The 17 year old teen genius, the cello-playing prodigy, the future first Asian president of the United States? Or the 20 year old prophet, world-weary and desperate for a way out, willing to deal with the literal devil for the possibility of bringing his mother back?

                He’s surprised to find it doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would to realize he’d been dead for a lot longer than a few hours. It feels strangely like a relief. He’s out. Sure it wasn’t the best life imaginable, but he was on the side of the good guys. The side of the angels, he thinks to himself. He doesn’t realize that he’s laughed out loud until Chuck pats him sharply on the shoulder.

                “Laughter is usually a good sign,” he jokes, and Kevin uncovers his face.

                “Just fully accepting my mortality. Hilarious,” he replies drily.

                This time, Chuck’s smile isn’t weak at all. It’s bright and reaches all the way to his eyes. “That’s the spirit! And you know,” Chuck looks away mischievously. “There’s a few people who’d really like to see you.”

                Kevin furrows his brow, but before he can formulate a question, Chuck grabs him by the hand and pulls him toward the door. He opens it with ease, and with a sharp intake of breath, Kevin looks.

                “Am I dreaming?” he asks Chuck, as he steps forward, toward where his mother and Channing are waiting.

                “No,” Chuck answers fondly. “Just dead.”

                Despite everything, Kevin laughs. He runs forward into his mother’s embrace, burying his face into her shoulder, and the tears that fall this time are definitely the happy kind.


End file.
